


different, different

by mellowheart



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bantering, Bisexual Malia Tate, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/F, Fluff, Lesbian Lydia Martin, Past Allison Argent/Lydia Martin, Past Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, Pre-Slash, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 01:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17356721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellowheart/pseuds/mellowheart
Summary: Some Malydia snuggling to soothe your soul.





	different, different

            **Lydia wasn’t sure whether it was** because of a premonition, or perhaps a draft of wind too cold for her liking, but she found herself waking up at who-knows o’clock. She took in a deep breath through her nose, her body slowly coming to life like a wheel that hadn’t been turned in years; her first instinct was to arch her back, a low but quiet groan rising up her throat. A groan of protest, really, because she refused to wake up at this ungodly hour - she refused so much that she didn’t allow her eyes to open all the way, preferring to crack them open a bit so she could catch a glimpse at the state of her bedroom. She didn’t scan the entire area - that would require sitting up - but she saw the darkness of the room, interrupted only by the bright neon text of the alarm clock on her bedside table.

            Insultingly _bright_ , she thought as she squeezed her eyes shut, grimacing at the brief flash of pain. It was 3:32 A.M., and as satisfied as she was to be aware of the time, the sting in her eyes let her know that she had not gotten enough sleep. The teenage girl pulled the comforter and sheets closer to her chin, burrowing herself deeper into the pillows and grateful that she had a few hours left of sleep before she had to get up for school. In theory. She never knew what kinds of thoughts would pop up into her head during the dead of night, or what kinds of nightmares would slip into her subconscious when she fell asleep. All apart of being a harbinger of death, she supposed: waking up to sounds of her friend’s screams echoing in the hollows of her ears and a spanking-new headache to match. Not to mention the sheen of sweat that crawled down her skin, and the hard thump of her heartbeat against her rib cage.

            _Whatever._

            She was used to it, and was prepared to drown in the pitch-black of the room, the lack of activity gently pushing her eyes closed and slowing her breaths, drifting her off into a landscape of dreams. And Lydia was almost there, until she scooted her body back an inch and bumped into something solid and warm - werewolf-warm, caressing the chill out of her bones. Except it wasn’t a werewolf she was lying with, she perceived after her eyes snapped open; the hand that she hadn’t noticed - the hand that had somehow nestled its way under her neck - was familiar, and wasn’t calloused enough to belong to any of her male werewolf friends. The planes of the being’s fingers were long and smooth, the tips curled with relaxation; graceful, yet capable of great strength. And although Lydia couldn’t see the nails, she knew they were filed short, because she knew exactly who was lying behind her - not a werewolf, but a certain werecoyote named Malia Tate, who had for some reason sneaked into her bedroom. She knew this for certain, but she still rolled over, backing up to create some space in between them.

            Lo and behold, there Malia was, snoozing as if she was meant to be there. Her expression was serene, rid of the frowns she usually wore throughout the day; she looked at everyone and everything as if she never knew what was going on, which didn’t surprise Lydia in the slightest. The other girl had only been in her human form for a few months - at least, since the car crash that had killed the majority of her family when she was at the innocent age of eight years old - so she was still adjusting to her surroundings. Still getting used to eating food that wasn’t the raw meat of the animals she caught, and having to sit in classrooms for the majority of her days. Doing mathematics was less than ideal for regular students, let alone for a girl who’d only had a few years of education.

            Scoffing in disbelief, Lydia lightly tapped the back of her fingers against Malia’s cheek a few times in rapid succession. No signs of a response. She even pulled back the covers, taking the luxury of warmth away from both of them. The coyote remained at rest, long brown hair disheveled and lips parted to allow soft snores to pass through. She hadn’t even brought proper pajamas, instead settling for a Rolling Stones t-shirt a few sizes too big and green basketball shorts bright enough to tell a car to go.

            She should’ve known better than to _tap_ a supernatural creature with supernatural strength, but she cautioned herself against making noises that could cause alarm; her mother was a light sleeper, and after all Lydia had faced for the past year or so, she would likely assume the worst. So the girl grabbed onto Malia’s shoulder and shook her, her body moving back and forth from the force. The brunette murmured through her sleepy state, eyebrows furrowing because of the disruption; so, naturally, Lydia kept going for a while, and resorted to snapping her fingers in Malia’s face when the other method didn’t yearn much progress.

            Finally, Malia gave a huff of impatience as she opened her eyes, smacking Lydia’s hand away. “ _What?_ ”

            “I could ask you the same thing,” Lydia hissed through her teeth, punctuating her words with a smack on the brunette’s wrist. “ _What_ the hell are you doing? This is my house, not a shelter for Beacon Hills’ supernatural community.”

            The other girl sighed through her nose, nestling against her pillow and apparently more interested in sleep than their current conversation. “I don’t like sleeping alone, so I came here. What’s the big deal?”

            “The big _deal_ is that-” Lydia cut herself off with a curt sigh, carding her fingers through her hair and pressing her lips into a thin line. It was simply too early to lecture Malia on the importance of boundaries, because if the subject confused her during broad daylight, she wouldn’t understand a word while half-asleep. This wasn’t the first time she’d invaded someone else’s privacy, not even close - Stiles had told her and the rest of the pack more than a few stories about how Malia had snuck into his bedroom before they’d even started dating. At least, if they were even still dating; between homework and the constant flow of Nemeton-stemmed villains that insisted on wreaking havoc on Beacon Hills, it was difficult to remain updated on the dating statuses of her almost-friends. Almost-friends, otherwise known as members of Scott’s pack who she hadn’t gotten to know yet; Stiles was easing his way off the list because the frequency of their hang-outs had been increasing since she’d found out about the existence of werewolves, but Malia was more of an acquaintance who asked for Lydia’s notes every now and then.

            Truth to be told, she wasn’t too eager to make new friends, especially ones on the female side of the spectrum. It wasn’t as if Lydia had ever been great at making friends, anyway; for the first couple years of her high school career - after the disaster that was middle school - she had been a social butterfly in that she invested her time in portraying a false image of herself, going to all the parties and forming a favorable reputation around herself. Back then, Lydia Martin was the airhead who always wore a full face of makeup and hung off of the shoulder of Jackson Whittemore. But then she met Allison Argent, who was tall, headstrong, and effortlessly beautiful - oh, and she was also wearing a jacket to _die_ for. Her brand of confidence intrigued Lydia, made her want to talk to the other girl for hours. Made her want to talk to her about things that actually mattered, like politics and aspirations - and they did talk about these things, while they were doing the most mundane of activities.

            Allison was _different_. She saw right through Lydia’s facade with a pair of bright brown eyes, and listened to the other talk about Physics with a wide grin on her face. When they went shopping or took quiet walks around the town, Allison would often go into rambles about the archery equipment she found online, or the teachers who got on her last nerve; she ranted a lot more than Lydia expected she would, the brunette’s kind disposition giving way to eye rolls and furrowed brows. But when she talked about the things she loved, like dogs and rock music, Lydia indulged herself in Allison’s looks; she allowed her eyes to wander down the thick brown locks that cascaded down the girl’s shoulders, and trace along the defined curve of her jaw. She eventually cut her hair shorter, and the seemingly softer texture gave Lydia new fantasies of running her fingers through it - and she did, sometimes, but never in the way she wanted to.The touches were always casual, brief yet lingering

            By then, Lydia had realized that she’d fallen in love with Allison Argent, passionately and surreptitiously. She fell headfirst, drowning in an all-consuming bout of adoration for the other girl. Every handhold made her burst in flames from the inside out, and every laugh that escaped Allison’s lips made Lydia feel as if she were floating above it all. But she never knew what to do with these feelings, because she’d never felt this way towards anyone, let alone a girl; so she kept her heterosexual act intact, resorting to flings after Jackson left for London. Flings, all of them, because she never felt anything worth swooning over or acknowledging; the boys she kissed or slept with were toys to her, pieces of a strategy to keep anyone from getting suspicious. However, Allison had never been fooled by her tricks, because, according to her, Lydia was “a bad actor in the worst film of the year.” She always looked at her like there was something she wasn’t being told, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Those looks made Lydia wonder if Allison liked her in return, because the brunette’s intelligent gaze had a way of tracing her soul, making her own heart retreat sheepishly.

            The huntress made her feel like prey, and she didn’t hate it. Not entirely.

            Allison had had a relationship with Scott McCall, which didn’t last as long as Lydia thought it would. They were always wrapped around each other, those two, sharing chaste kisses in the hallway and gazing at each other in a way that was too familiar for her own comfort. Because Allison should only look at _her_ like that, and their public displays of affection made her want to snap all her pencils in half. They spent more time together than usual after the breakup, because they were both technically single. Lydia should have taken her chance during this lovely period of television show binges and study nights, but she resisted. She resisted over and over again, and she knew Allison was resisting, too...until the night where Lydia was trapped in the tunnels with Stiles’ cold and unconscious body in her arms.

            Until the night when Lydia felt Allison die, as if the Oni’s sword had sheared through her chest rather than the chest of a girl she loved so much it was hard to breathe sometimes. And then neither of them were resisting, because Lydia felt it, in that moment. The chill on her skin and the rawness of her throat became secondary, because all she could feel was the pain and love Allison had kept in her heart, and all she could think was _Allison Allison Allison_. And she couldn’t stop _screaming_ , not until her best friend’s life crumbled away. The dust still scratched at her throat.

            She woke up the next morning a different person, her heart a heavy stone in her rib cage and her brain screaming at her to break down already; but she kept going through life, because Allison Argent would never again get the chance to. After a few months, the pain wasn’t as severe as it was on that night, as expected - she knew she wouldn’t suffer forever, but the memory was still tender. Her current friends helped her through it, and she was trying her best to not be so cold to the new members of the pack. But all the girls she met reminded her of Allison these days, in some way or another, and Malia Tate was no exception.

            Lydia turned away, beleaguered with memories harsher than the creatures that crept up in her nightmares. Like she'd said... _too early_. “Aren’t you dating Stiles? Go to him.”

            “We broke up a couple weeks ago,” Malia responded, causing Lydia’s head to turn in slight surprise. “But it didn’t end in bad blood -- we just thought we’d be better off as friends. Anyway, he’s out of town for spring break, and won’t be back until Tuesday. Plus, you seemed like the best option.”

            She snorted, the corners of her lips turning upwards. “ _Seemed_.”

            “Yeah,” the werecoyote mumbled through her pillow. “I’m definitely questioning it now, though.”

            “Okay, well...” Lydia stalled, looking to the ceiling as if the heavens would rain down answers for her. “What about Kira?”

            “We’ve spoken, like, _twice_.”

            “Yeah, and we’ve spoken, like, _thrice_.”

            “The hell is ‘ _thrice_ ’?”

            The redhead restrained herself from rolling her eyes, settling for an unamused stare. “Three times.”  
  
            “Okay, well,” Malia grumbled, sitting up a little so she could lean her head on her fist, “we’ve spoken way more times than that. Remember all those cases we solved together? Like the time we had to go to the art room so you could do your banshee thing and magically get the key to appear?”

            That instance in particular occurred only a few weeks ago, when the pack was trying to figure out all of the key codes to gain access to all the sections of the Benefactor’s list. The hit list - or deadpool, as Derek often called it - was full of the names of supernatural creatures who resided in Beacon Hills, with a price attached to the side of each name. Human assassins of all ages had gotten ahold of the list, and tried their goddamn hardest to take out the supernaturals with the highest monetary value. It seemed so long ago, now that she’d thought of it, but it had only been a week since they’d sent Meredith to be locked up in Eichen House.

            During the time where they were searching for these keys, Malia and Lydia had decided to team up during their off period - well, _Lydia’s_ off period. Malia just skipped class, which would’ve been advised against if it wasn’t a matter of life and death. “Life and death” was a commonly used phrase in Beacon Hills, especially within the supernatural underbelly; sometimes the danger got to be too much, and it made her want to smash the Nemeton with her fist. Although, the evil creatures and spirits of below would probably find a way to ruin the lives of her and her friends even if she destroyed their spawn point.

            Anyway, Lydia Martin felt a tug in her gut one day, one that little to nothing to do with banshee instinct. Stiles had once pushed her to try the compulsory writing method back when the pack had been trying to hunt down the Darach, before she’d even known she was a banshee. Both him and Cora Hale had pulled her into an empty classroom (during the middle of the day, to her annoyance), and they’d tried two different methods before resorting to the writing method. They’d basically placed a notebook on the desk before her, put a pencil in her hand, and told her to write whatever came to mind. In retrospect, she should’ve slung her bag onto her shoulder and bounced the moment the Hale girl implied that Lydia knew spirits, but she stayed, deciding to humor them both for the possible benefit of the pack. Plus, she’d been having a better day than usual, so she was in a decent mood.

            She ended up drawing a tree - one she’d drawn many times before, but she’d never questioned. It was a _tree_ , for God’s sake; why did she need to question every single odd habit she had just in case it was related to the supernatural? Perhaps she didn’t realize the near-obsessive extent of her tree-drawing, but hey, it was a tree; never mind the tight squeeze in her chest every time she drew it, because prior to finding out she was a banshee, she had brushed off every strange feeling as paranoia; since the night of the sophomore school dance, she’d experienced a lot of it. Getting bitten by a strange man could do that to you.

            The tree turned out to be the Nemeton, and that piece of knowledge ended up taking part in the defeat of the human sacrificer that was the Darach, who went under the alias of Jennifer Blake. She thought back to that day when she led Malia to the art room, because even if the method didn’t produce the results she desired, she had to at least try. Except that time was different, because rather than having two people with her sitting away from her at a reasonable distance, she had one person with her - and the aforementioned person was Malia Tate, a werecoyote who didn’t understand personal space. And due to that, the banshee found herself with a pencil in hand, a large sketch pad in front of her, and a painfully gorgeous girl hovering over her shoulder.

            In that moment, every touch lit a match inside of her chest; she could feel every breath that passed through the other girl’s lips, because she was right there, her chin inches away from leaning on Lydia’s shoulder. It distracted her in the best way, her hand shaking enough to make the pencil waver a bit. Malia’s presence was weakening, breaking down all her defenses and lingering strands of logic; she had been leaning on the palms of her hands, within range of Lydia’s hips. God, the _things_ Lydia would do to have those powerful hands gripping at her hips like they belonged there, with those plush, pink lips mouthing at the pale column of her neck. At some point, she’d closed her eyes, forgetting entirely about the task at hand and hyper-fixating on the fantasies that drifted throughout her head; fantasies of Malia pulling Lydia into her chest with one arm around her waist, stroking her other hand against the other girl’s thigh and just _taking_ what she wanted. And oh, did Lydia _want_ ; she wanted so hard that it made every part of her body ache, especially the parts underneath the skirt she was wearing.  
  
            “Can you-” Lydia had cut in mid-thought, sitting up abruptly, “sit down? ...You’re making me nervous.”

            The werecoyote mumbled “sorry” as she backed away, shuffling towards the chair next to the easel. The moment of intimacy had only lasted a few minutes, yet she felt as if everything had been going in slow motion. The redhead was grateful for the space, finally able to breathe deeply instead of through almost suffocating stutters of breath, but her body felt suddenly cold; the warmth that emanated from Malia’s body was gone, and with a bite of her lip and clear head, she knew that the other girl moving away was partially a bad thing. It was all at once familiar and different, and she liked different - liked it too much, really. _Malia_ was different, and Lydia had told her to sit down, because of what had happened the last time she’d gotten close to a girl who was different.

            So, yeah, she remembered the day in the art room, even if she tried her best not to for her heart's sake.

            “Yeah,” Lydia responded softly, and then cleared her throat with a furrow of her brow. “Yeah, I remember. Just...”

            The banshee held her hands in front of herself, shaking them slightly as she tried to organize her thoughts. Malia remained quiet through the seconds that passed, slowly blinking at her with an attempt to fend off sleep. “Don’t do this again without asking first. Okay? If you were anyone else or if it were any other night, I would’ve socked you in the throat.”

            Malia cocked an eyebrow. “Is that a threat?”

            “It’s a guarantee.”

            “Good,” she responded, moving out of the position she’d been in and getting comfortable again, pulling the covers back up to her chin. “Then it’s all settled. Goodnight - or morning. Whatever.”

            Lydia huffed out a laugh she hoped was barely-noticeable, and got into a similar position, closing her eyes with relief spreading throughout her chest. “Goodnight.”

            Silence fell between them like snow, the gentle winds of the night becoming the loudest noise in the room. Lydia slipped back into her thoughts, trying to ignore the fact that there was someone else in her bed; it wasn’t as if she hadn’t had many gentleman callers in her bed before, but those situations were unlike this one. Like she’d said many times before to her friends, they were flings, meaning they were essentially out of her life the moment they left her bedroom. Of course, there was also Jackson, but he had been nothing but vile to her, encouraging her ditzy facade for the sake of his own ego; that relationship was also prior to the realization of her sexuality, and the adopting of her lesbian identity. Compulsory heterosexuality was a bitch, and she slapped it in the face as often as she could; it pushed her on the ground and forcefully wrapped its hands around her neck at times, but Lydia always won in the end. She was a fucking lesbian, and no _one_ and no _thing_ could rip that away from her.

            So when she doubled up her efforts to ignore the presence behind her, it became that much more nerve-wracking. She had talked to Malia after the day in the art room, but only through conversations about homework, notes, or Benefactor-related stuff; even then, there had been other people around, so it wasn’t anywhere near as intimate or private. It bothered her, sometimes, that she insisted on pushing Malia away - on keeping their acquaintanceship on a professional level. Because Malia didn’t deserve that, after all she’d been through with the deaths in her family and the eight years spent in her coyote form; and Lydia herself didn’t deserve that either. Allison’s voice would enter her subconscious on more than one occasion, telling her that it was okay to move on. That it was okay to make new friends, enjoy the sun’s shine caressing her skin, and let herself get shot by Cupid’s arrow; that it was okay to be _happy_ , for Christ’s sake.

            Lydia had felt cold for far too long, and in the split second before she spoke, she decided that she was ready to accept someone else’s warmth, for once.

            She let out a heavy sigh after what had felt like ten minutes. “Now I can’t sleep.”

            “Fuck, me neither. You know what?” Malia grumbled, and the mattress bent down in one spot as she turned over to face Lydia’s back. “Come here.”

            And before she could vocalize any last-minute doubts, Malia slid her arm beneath the curve of Lydia’s waist and wrapped it around the front of her body, roughly pulling her into her own chest. Lydia’s space was suddenly Malia’s space, their legs interlocked and the other girl’s breaths brushing the back of her neck... _again_. Her lips were still parted in surprise, her eyes darting around the room as if someone else had seen what had just happened. Because Malia’s other hand was on the redhead’s stomach, her werewolf heat - or were _coyote_ heat -- spreading from the place of contact as if something broken was now being healed.

            Lydia folded her hands underneath her chin, humming to herself as she got comfortable again. A sleepy fog finally formed around her frame, her eyelids bowing to the demand of sleep and her breaths slowing. The darkness that surrounded the two felt kinder than usual, the moonlight winking at them through the blinds that hung in front of the window. She could stay like this forever, wrapped up in Malia’s strong arms - arms that promised they would hold tight for as long as they needed to, to keep Lydia safe from any harm. To fight off imposing, sneering adversaries, regardless of whether they were human or supernatural.

            A doubt crept in as usual, whispering that she was looking far too much into it. And she entertained that doubt, until Malia’s soft lips brushed against the back of her neck like she’d desired for what felt like decades; and the werecoyote smiled, wide enough to stretch across the universe. She couldn’t see it, but she definitely felt it, relaxing Lydia even further.

            “Better?” the other girl asked in a tone so gentle, so mind-numbingly warm that she almost couldn’t wrap her head around it. Almost couldn't believe it was directed at her, of all people...almost.

            Lydia nodded, succumbing to the caress of sleep and the promise of tomorrow’s adventures. “Better.” 


End file.
